


Distractions

by singer_s_lament



Category: NCIS
Genre: #GFY, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 10:45:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13973415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singer_s_lament/pseuds/singer_s_lament
Summary: Denial isn't just a river in Egypt.





	Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old fic sitting unfinished on my hard drive, easily from at least pre-2014. It was on LiveJournal for the NCIS Lottery Challenge and the prompt was kink: tattoos/tatooing. Cleanup work and assistance done by the fantastic DiNozzo'sProbie. It is vastly AU and I'm playing fast and loose with the timeline.

He had nothing against tattoos. They just weren’t for him. 

Tattoos and the military go hand in hand it seems. Routinely, as soon as they were released on leave, members of his squad would wander off to the dank and dirty back rooms found on streets in seedy neighborhoods teeming around ports, especially around military installations. They’d come back with pin up girls, or anchors, or a variation of the USMC logo, or the name of their sweetheart or ‘Mom’, or even a skull. Something to connect them, a link to home, to remind them where they came from, where’d they been, what they’d done, and learned. 

He wasn’t attracted to people who had them. He wasn’t. 

So why couldn’t he concentrate on the damned job? 

It was the *might be* that kept distracting him. Why did the very knowledge that there *might* be a permanent mark on Tony distract him? That little smudge on Tony’s side playing peek-a-boo as Tony’s shirt rode up and down in response to his movements. 

It wasn’t the tattoo that distracted him. It wasn’t.

It was also the fact that someone, some stranger, got to see that golden skin. Got to touch it. And mar it, damage it with a needle and ink. To touch what he claimed as his, even though he had no real right to claim. But Tony was his. 

And he wanted...

He wanted to touch and feel for himself if the skin was silky smooth as it looked. If the golden tone was as warm to the touch like it looked, like a fire was burning softly within. 

It was damned distracting. And it shouldn’t be. Distracting that is. What did he care what Tony did in his off time? 

Ned Dorneget just *HAD* to fall in love, and get married, to the brother of Tony’s best friend. And to make matters worse, he just *HAD* to ask Tony to be his best man. When the hell had they become such good friends anyway? At face value, Dorneget had more in common with McGee than he did Tony.

But, no. Like the good guy he is, Tony just had to say yes. Then he and his friend, who was his brother’s best man, teamed to throw a joint bachelor party. At this damned club. 

The only one of Tony’s frat brothers Gibbs had ever met before was Steve Adler, at Kate’s funeral. He knew that their occupations were varied; a stockbroker, a club owner, a teacher, a high end real estate dealer, a banker, a baker, Gibbs scowled at his drink, even a damned a lawyer. 

What Gibbs little knew of Whitacre before today could be said in two words, teaches gym. So whenever Tony had mentioned Whitacre, for some damned reason, Gibbs always pictured an aging jock of a teacher. The kind with longer hair, grey and balding, in need of a cut in the back. Someone with a soft body that never did a day’s hard work in his life, carrying around a clipboard and a whistle. Bland. And cheesy. And a paunch. And it never failed to bring a smirk to Gibbs’ face to think that Tony was friends with someone like that. 

This guy? *SO* not what Gibbs pictured. No. Aiden Whitacre did not teach gym. More apt, he taught *at* a gym. That he owned. An entire string of them from coast to coast. And not a frou-frou fancy schmancy gym with soothing music and soft lighting either. No. His gyms were more the old fashioned kind. With boxing and jump ropes and barbells and heavy ropes. The kind with the sound of grunts and weights clanking and the smell of sweat in the air. The kind that lean heavily on basic training. 

And Tony shouldn't have a best friend, a ~gay~ best friend, who looks like that, all muscles and lean. Hell, Gibbs even caught Ducky, Palmer, and McGee talking about how Tony’s friend was so damned attractive. Ridiculously attractive. All muscle bound and chiseled square jaw. Tattoos perfectly placed and aligned over impressive biceps. Hazel eyes that don’t miss a trick. Blonde hair just a shade longer than regulation. Intelligent, funny. Twenty years of duty, retired, Marine. 

Exactly. Tony’s. Type. Exactly. 

Hoo-Fuckin-Rah.

And the way Whitacre looks at Tony. Like he knew a secret. About Tony. The way his eyes traveled down Tony’s torso and lingered. With that damned smirk that quirked the right corner of his mouth just so. And every time he caught it, Tony smiled back at Whitacre. Every. Time. And it wasn’t right. And based on the way they were looking at each other, there is no fucking way that Tony didn’t climb into *his* lap and taken a ride or three. Or the other way around. 

It is all Dorneget’s fault. Damn him. And Whitacre’s parents for having TWO gay sons. 

Three hours ago, Gibbs hadn’t even know that Tony had a tattoo. Three hours ago he had a handle on his attraction. Three hours ago, the only thing on Gibbs’s mind was cutting out early after an obligatory appearance, wishing Dorneget and his fiance well, then spending some quality time with his latest project (an armoire for Layla).

And now here he is...distracted. 

Because Tony shouldn't be moving like that.

Because the shirt shouldn’t be riding up on Tony’s side, giving him a tantalizing peek.

Because Tony really should NOT be dancing with a stranger in a strange bar - a gay bar - smirking at Whitacre. 

Because Tony shouldn’t have a damned tattoo.


End file.
